His uncle had explained, the day he’d called Russell from Paris, that the war was making it too dangerous for Russell to go to Guatemala for the funeral. “Your mother would want it that way,” his uncle had told him. Russell had decided that his uncle was a coward. He would have gone. He hadn’t been afraid. He felt ashamed. He knew that his mother would want him to go, to be there for her.

After that call, he’d crossed the empty lawn back to his dormitory. The rest of the students were in class, the classroom doors shut. Russell could see the boys bent over their books through the windows as he made his way down the middle of the parade ground, past the flagpole with its plaque dedicated to the boys who’d died “defending” their country. The tips of his shined shoes picked up bits of grass, because they’d just run the mowers.

He’d gone up to his room, taken off his Sam Browne belt and his coat, and lay on the bed. The facts of his situation came and went as he stared out at the winter elm trees. He said “coward” out loud several times. Later, he tried to recover the pistol his mother had used to save their life when he’d been a baby. No one—including his aunt—seemed to know where it had gone.

A few minutes before, he’d heard a plane flying low over the general’s beach house. It was very loud for a moment, then the sound of the engines moved out over the water.

There was a knock on his door. He was reading. It was very late, and he was pretty sure that Beatrice was too drunk, when she’d said good night to the last of her guests, to sneak off and come to his bungalow.

“Yes?” Russell said.

“It’s Carlos.” He heard the general’s voice.

“Come in,” Russell said immediately. It was after one in the morning; he was surprised that Selva wasn’t in bed. The general opened the door and stepped into the room. Russell caught a glimpse of the moon through the open door.

“I’m going out on the lagoon. I thought you might like to come.” Carlos was dressed in shorts and a guayabera. “Just you and I,” Carlos said. “Do you have a pistol? Or something, just in case?”

“Señor Mossberg,” he joked, referring to his shotgun. “It’s rather late, isn’t it?” Russell smiled and closed his book.

“Yes. But I saw your light on,” the general said.

“It’s warm in here,” Russell said. “I suppose it would be cooler out on the water.”

“Good. . . . We don’t want to be caught with our pants down. There’s all types out at night here. You’d better bring the shotgun. I get so tired of bodyguards all the time. I thought we’d go alone,” the general said. Carlos looked at him for a moment. Russell slid his book onto the table next to his bed and stood up.

“You know what the people around here call Tilapa now,” Carlos said.

“No.”

“They call it the Red Jungle. La selva roja, because so many people are murdered either on the lagoon or out in the mangroves.”

“Why?” Russell stood up. He felt odd. The general was looking at him closely. “I suppose I should put on long pants. For the bugs.” The general nodded and sat at the end of the bed. Does he know something? Carlos’s eyes were bloodshot from drinking. Heavily brilliantined and combed straight back, his hair looked almost wet.

“The locals are all doing something illegal with their boats. Cocaine. The planes from Colombia fly over about a mile out from the beach and drop the drugs. The boatmen pick it up and take it by sea to Mexico; it isn’t far. Sometimes bandits come and try to take the coke from them on the lagoon. It’s interesting,” Carlos said. He glanced at Russell’s shotgun in the corner of the room. “Come on. I’ll meet you out at the dock. I’ll tell Beatrice we’re going out. . . . She worries.”

Russell nodded. He went to his pack and took out extra shells for the Mossberg, then slipped on a pair of running shoes and a T-shirt. It dawned on him, as he bent over tying his shoes, that Carlos had learned about him and Beatrice, and was going to kill him.

She might have simply confessed. She had drunk too much at dinner, and with the strange way she’d been acting since he’d arrived, it was certainly possible, he thought.

He walked into the dark bathroom and switched on the light. Beatrice’s bathing suit bottom was gone from where he’d hung it. Damn it. He’d meant to hide it.

The lagoon was moonlit when Carlos yanked the cord on the outboard. He’d kept Russell waiting as he stood on the beach speaking on his cell phone, his back turned. Russell sat in the boat with his shotgun on his knees, looking out at the lagoon that went for miles towards Mexico. He could hear the occasional jaguar, and once or twice heard the loud sound of twin outboard motors heading towards the narrow opening on the lagoon that opened onto the Pacific.

Coming towards the boat, the general tossed a Steyr machine gun to Russell as he climbed in. It was the same boat that Russell and Beatrice had taken out that morning.

“There’s something going on in the capital,” Carlos said, standing over the boat’s engine. He checked the gas tank, opening it and shining a small flashlight down into the reservoir. “That was the U.S. embassy.” He turned and shone the light into Russell’s eyes. “My friend, a friend on the third floor. CIA. . . . They say Madrid is planning a coup.” Carlos began pulling the motor’s cord; the boat, floating out into the lagoon now, rocked under Carlos’s weight as he pulled. His voice was punctuated by the outboard motor’s attempts to start. “Have you heard anything about this, Russell?” As if answering his question, the motor started.

Russell was holding the Steyr on his lap along with the shotgun. He thought for a moment of shooting Carlos immediately, but realized that the sound of it would draw Selva’s bodyguards, and he couldn’t possibly get away. He would be dead before he could cross the lagoon.

“No. Not a thing. But then, how would I know that?” Russell said. “It’s hardly something they’d tell me.”

Carlos sat down. The engine was idling. They looked at each other. Russell could see the beginning of a smile on the general’s face.

“My embassy friends asked me what the fuck you had to do with this. They can’t figure you out, apparently. You’ve appeared on their screen and now you’re a great mystery to them. They don’t like mysteries. They say you’re advising Madrid in regards to the economy, but maybe more,” Carlos said. He turned the throttle up and they moved away from the dock, the lagoon calm. Russell could see that a few of the houses on the spit still had their lights on, the house lights dim and yellow like yellow oil paint.

“The tide is coming in,” Carlos said. It was cool out on the water, much cooler. Carlos was still looking at him. “I suppose I should have the gun now,” Carlos said, smiling at him. “Just in case.”

“I want to thank you . . . for what you did for Katherine,” Russell said. He was gripping the stock of the Mossburg. He slid his hand on the pump end. He wanted to shoot Carlos Selva, who stood in the way of the country’s progress; he was sure of it. He’d cleaned the shotgun and oiled it before leaving his apartment. There was that feel of the oily metal he’d first experienced in military school. He heard the sound of the outboard, felt the water give way under them as the boat speeded up.

He remembered the Greek. He’s just another bully. He turned and looked at the dark shadows of the houses, along the beach.

Don’t I have to? Carlos knew now about their plan and he would, being a good army man, tell President Blanco. He, Russell, could start the coup right now. Carlos was head of the intelligence service. Why not kill him? Russell let his eyes move along the shore. Could he shoot a man in cold blood? Fuck him, he thought. He knew Carlos wouldn’t hesitate to kill him if he knew the truth about him and Beatrice.